


What Dreams May Come

by ghostwriterly



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Pining, VictUuri, Victor's POV, canon adjacent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-19 00:28:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9409250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostwriterly/pseuds/ghostwriterly
Summary: Viktor Nikiforov holds the world in the palm of his hand. And yet, he has nothing.{An alternate season one, from Viktor's point of view.}





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a very long time since I fell this hard for a couple of saps, but here we are. (Obsession is such a strong word, don't you think?) This fic was born because Viktor's back story and headspace have haunted me from day one (but particularly from episode 10!!) While we will loosely follow the canon trajectory of the show, I reserve the right to fic where fic may lead. Finally, although I would be honored to include the beautiful Russian and Japanese dialogue that is native to our beloveds, I am, alas, unfailingly an English speaker. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy. xoxo

_He does confess he feels himself distracted,_

_But from what cause he will by no means speak._

_Hamlet: Act III, Scene I_

 

...

 

If you were seated in the stands, he liked to imagine the cheers were deafening.

At center ice, Viktor could only hear the beat of his own heart.

He waited for the exhilaration that followed a masterful performance, held the final pose for a beat longer than necessary. Waited for a rush that never came.

For the first time ever he felt the chill of the glassy surface that had long been his home, seeping through his costume, sinking into his bones. It wasn’t until he left the ice that he realized he hadn’t bowed to the spectators, so disoriented by the foreignness of the cold and the vacuity of the moment, that he had simply forgotten.

It was unforgiveable, as Yakov reminded him in a harsh hiss against his ear.

The scores, the medal, the podium, the interviews—it was all rote. It came and went and Viktor was present in body only, his mind far away, thinking of home and wondering where, exactly, that even was.


	2. Chapter 2

_How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable_ _  
Seem to me all the uses of this world._

_Hamlet: Act I, Scene II_

_..._

It was late and Viktor was tired.

James had insisted they go out for dinner, to celebrate, but also because they hadn’t seen one another in weeks. It wasn’t as though he accompanied Viktor to skating competitions, although he did cut a pretty figure in a tux and was blessed with a biting wit, thus making him an appropriate, even desirable companion at the more glittering of Viktor’s obligatory appearances. It was something of a bonus that Yakov despised him, primarily because upon meeting him, he had deemed James an _arrogant American,_ although Viktor found James neither arrogant, nor particularly American, given that he carried dual French citizenship through his mother and had lived abroad most of his adult life.

It had been in France that they had met, in fact, on a weekend when Viktor had simply snuck away, chartered a private jet and spent three days wandering the tiny, wet streets of a wintery Paris, eating buttery baked goods he would regret within a week. He had been mid-purchase of a small painting of a Japanese garden, impressionistic and not his usual taste at all, but he had had to have it, inflated price tag or no. A darkly handsome man also perusing the small assortment of locally sourced art had chuckled when Viktor’s flawless French had startled the young cashier, who had recognized him and fumbled through a blushing autograph request.

The man had been James, and Viktor’s weekend jaunt had turned into a week.

And then a relationship. Of sorts.

That had been four months ago. Or was it five?

Viktor watched the lights of St. Petersburg rush by through the dark tint of the windows of James’ hired car, and thought about the strange ebb and flow of time. He wondered when the months had begun to bleed into one another until he couldn’t recall the changing of the seasons.

Before James, there had been Gregg. And Julian, and Charles. So many beautiful, powerful, empty men, requiring nothing from Viktor but companionship and the continuity of his status at the pinnacle of his sport. He couldn't, wouldn't, complain; he had used them to their every advantage too. _Advantageous to all_ , he thought cynically. 

He wondered idly when he had lost interest, lost the will to play along, to eat in fine restaurants with an even finer gentleman, to go home for decent (sometimes amazing) sex, knowing it would never be more. That neither wanted more. There were those, like James, who were better than most. Handsomer, taller, richer, easier to let in. He was genuinely nice, Viktor thought, as they entered his apartment. He watched as James kicked off his expensive loafers and plugged his phone into the countertop charger, an easy familiarity that elicited a tiny frisson of fear behind Viktor’s breastbone, one that only grew when James opened the refrigerator to help himself to a beer.

Viktor knew he had to go. "I'm really quite tired."

James paused, bottle halfway to his mouth. "Oh." It was clear he hadn't planned to leave for a good long while—maybe never—and Viktor wondered if he could really fault him for that. They were, after all, beautifully matched. 

"I'm sorry," he started to say but James stopped him with a gentle smile and a shake of his head. 

"No, you're right. It's been a long week for you. You've barely had a moment to yourself between the competition and the travel. I'll go."

And just like that, the beer was drained into the sink and the loafers slipped back into place and when he leaned over the couch to kiss him good bye, Viktor turned his head at the last second so that his lips grazed his cheek.  

"I'll call you tomorrow," James said as he turned to leave.

Viktor knew he wouldn't answer.

...

That first night, he didn’t know what to do with himself.

He tried to read, and then to watch a movie. He was restless, exhausted but unable to sleep, wired and fidgety and out of sorts, and he nearly wished he had waited for James to fuck him before he’d kicked him out, if only to release some of this godawful tension that had settled between his shoulders.

He was scrolling idly through his phone when a text from Christophe—longtime rival both on the ice and for hot boys on the tour—blessedly gave him something to do besides half-heartedly hunt for a suitable piece of porn.

His eyes bounced from the skater to the title of the video only once. _Yuuri Katsuki._ Someone had cleverly added Viktor’s free program music as the audio track, although even without it, the lyrical movement of the skater’s body would have been enough to fill his head with song. His hand ached as he watched the near perfect replica of his own performance, and he realized how hard he was gripping his phone.

_Yuuri Katsuki._

The videographer was shaky, losing the skater’s face for a split second, and Viktor frowned in frustration. _Come on!_ But wait, there—there he was again, wearing an expression of joy and peace and love such as Viktor couldn’t remember having ever felt when he had skated the same piece. Not to say that the skate, that _Yuuri,_ was flawless—he was not. But he was achingly lovely, with a sincerity that was palpable, even through the tiny screen.

Suddenly, Viktor was angry. Explosively so, and he tossed the phone to the floor, jumping up from the sofa and scaring Makkachin as he paced the carpet. He patted the dog on one of his rounds, alternating between scrubbing his face and running his fingers through his hair.

“This is stupid,” he muttered. Makkachin thumped his tail in agreement.

_Yuuri._

Viktor stopped pacing to stare at a fire he barely remembered lighting in the fireplace. It wasn’t really cold enough for a fire, but he was nostalgic. Nostalgic for winter, for the heightened excitement of being on tour, for the exhilaration of performing, of competing, chasing something he always won but never truly _found._

He glanced down at the phone, where the tiny skater had been paused, his elegant pose mocking him from the floor.

 _Yuuri_.

Yuuri, who smelled like hotel soap and whose skin was so soft, Viktor had wanted to nuzzle into it from the first moment he had touched him.

Yuuri, whose smile was blinding under the influence of champagne, and whose lithe hips were the stuff dreams were made of.

Yuuri, who had utterly charmed him by midnight, and then disappeared into the dark.

Yuuri, who hadn’t been at World’s, not even as a spectator.

Yuuri, who had just skated his own free program as though it belonged to him in a way it had never belonged to Viktor.

He must have known he would see it. Right?

_Why._

_Why._

“Why?” He asked the poodle, who had already curled up in a circle on the sofa and gone back to sleep. He stared into the fire again, breathing through his nose and trying to calm his racing heart.

He looked down at the phone, Yuuri’s hand outstretched, reaching, for him.

Yuuri, with his baby soft skin and cognac eyes and sweet, sweet breath that had teased Viktor’s cheek when they danced.

He closed his eyes and tried not to let the tiny flutter of hope overwhelm him.

“Fuck.”


	3. Chapter 3

_for there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so._

_Hamlet: Act II, Scene II_

_..._

Viktor was anything but a nervous flyer. He had spent a dedicated portion of his life on planes of various sizes and configurations.

But today, he was anxious.

Perhaps it was the gravity of leaving behind everything and everyone he knew, or the unanticipated resistance from Yakov and his rink mates. He must have been suffering from a latent naiveté, because he honestly hadn’t foreseen any opposition to packing up his life in St. Petersburg and flying halfway around the world to…well. He hadn’t really gotten much farther than the packing and the destination.

Each cynical argument and pessimistic naysayer would chip away at his resolve, until finally he had begun to feel the first slivers of doubt. But then, as he was packing his team jacket from the Grand Prix Final, his thoughts turned to Yuuri’s joyful rendition of his free skate (as they so often did at odd moments throughout the day). His chest had filled with butterflies and a fresh wave of excitement had rushed through him, and he just… knew. This was right. Come what may, whatever he found at the end of this journey, this, today, was right.

He wasn’t stupid. Although he had left Yakov and the others with a somewhat believable cover story, about Yuuri’s video performance having spawned a sudden desire to try his hand at coaching, he knew how crazy it sounded. And the truth was too personal, too cherished. He could never in a million years explain that it had been Yuuri himself, four plus months ago, who first planted the seeds of this impulsive, beautiful, insane idea.

They must have made an incongruous pair that night at the banquet, the first place finisher and the one who came in last, giggling like schoolgirls over a shared bottle of champagne. They had lost their more civilized flutes somewhere between the banquet hall and the dark balcony where they landed, although they had at least been sober enough to bundle up against the cold December air. Viktor still clearly, painfully, remembered the strange heat that had coursed through him, unfamiliar and exhilarating, as he sat on marbled concrete with a competitor he had somehow never met. He couldn’t remember who had suggested sneaking away, but the proposal had been a lifeline, a much needed reprieve from the music, the crowd, and the endless scrutiny. Viktor didn’t understand why he felt more comfortable, more _alive_ , with this boy he barely knew, when his team and an entire roster of tour friends were somewhere just inside, but _God_ he did.  

 _What are you going to do?_ Yuuri’s breath had puffed around his face in the cold, the haze so prettily framing his pink mouth it had taken a moment for the words to register.

Viktor shook his head, scrambling to catch up. “I don’t know,” he confided quietly. “I’ve never done anything else.” It was strangely cathartic to confess this to a virtual stranger, and he searched Yuuri’s face, hoping he might be sober enough to understand Viktor was giving him something precious, something he normally protected with everything he had.

Yuuri had laughed softly, and squeezed his gloved hand, a touch so unexpected Viktor had sucked in a breath, almost missing his reply. “You’re Viktor Nikiforov. You can do anything.”

In that moment, Viktor had felt those words, so heartfelt, so resolute, in a way he never had before. _You can do anything._ “What about you, Yuuri Katsuki? What are you going to do?”

Yuuri’s eyes had clouded, and it had taken all of Viktor’s willpower not to gather him close, hum a tango in his ear, coax that laughing, dancing boy from earlier out into the night again. “I—I want to skate. I’ve always wanted to skate.”

“Me too,” Viktor whispered. He took a long drink before passing over the champagne.

“You know,” Yuuri grinned, pointing the open bottle in his direction, his movements still sloppy enough that Viktor (who was either just as drunk or just an idiot) found him unbearably adorable. “I really do need a coach.” He drank deeply, grunting in frustration when he emptied it, and then sighed heavily, his full bottom lip pouting out aggressively and pinging every last goddamn one of Viktor’s kinks.

Viktor was just about to scramble to his feet, offer to fetch them another bottle, a whole case, _fuck_ , when Yuuri’s next words sealed his fate, even if neither of them knew it at the time.

“When I think what you—what _I_ could become, if I had someone like you behind me. With me.”

Viktor was already opening his mouth, ready to promise this boy the earth, the sun, and the stars, when the balcony doors slid open and Celestino, Yuuri’s coach, called to the people behind him, “They’re out here!”

And then Yuuri was bundled off to his hotel and Viktor was pulled inside to mingle, and he was half asleep and naked in his own bed before he realized he had never even asked for Yuuri’s number.

“Sir? Would you like a bottled water for your dog?” The flight attendant smiled radiantly at Makkachin, clearly dying to pat his curly head.

“Please, he loves to be petted. And yes, thank you.”

“I’ll be right back,” she nodded.

When she returned, embarrassed that she had failed to take Viktor’s drink order, he waved away her concern with a laugh and ordered a cocktail.

Just to calm his nerves.

…

Yuuri’s family did indeed own an inn.

Viktor didn’t know why he had doubted that particular piece of information, but it seemed so random and yet so vivid in his memory, that Yuuri would invite him to visit _his family’s inn_ —that until he was standing on the doorstep, he had had a hard time believing it to be true.

He knew he was in the right place when a woman who could be no one but Yuuri’s mother hurried forward to greet him with a wide smile. She had Yuuri’s eyes.

“Oh!” She clapped a hand over her mouth when she spotted Makkachin.

“He’s very friendly, he doesn’t bite,” he hurried to reassure her.

“Oh no, no,” she shook her head, her smile returning, if somewhat dimmed. “We had a dog, so very like yours. He startled me, is all.” She reached for the handle of his rolling suitcase. “Please, come in. Are you planning to stay long?”

“I—” He squeezed Makkachin’s leash. “I have no idea.”

She tilted her head and studied him with a thoughtful expression. “You need a good soak in the springs. It will clear your mind and help you find peace.”

“That sounds heavenly,” Viktor said fervently, because it did. He forced himself to relax his shoulders, his back so stiff it ached, but he couldn’t stop himself from surreptitiously glancing around the foyer and into what appeared to be a restaurant to the left.

What would Yuuri think, when he saw him? Would he be happy? Shocked? It wasn’t stalking if you were invited, right? And he _did_ invite him, did he not?

_He invited you. It will be fine._

_But he disappeared without a trace._

_He skated your routine and posted it for the entire world to see._

_Maybe he was trying to prove something._

_Maybe he was trying to prove something to **you.**_

_Maybe you should shut up._

“Sir?” Yuuri’s mother was studying him again. “Your name?”

Viktor blinked. “Viktor Nikiforov.”

“Oh,” she clucked her tongue with a laugh. “You might need to spell that for me.”

Viktor stared at her for a beat. “N-i-k-i-f-o-r-o-v.” Even without the hot springs, he felt the strain of the trip, the strangeness of this day, begin to fade away.  

“Well, who’s this young fellow?” A jolly voice called from the doorway.

Viktor turned to find an older man squatted in the opening, Makkachin already making himself at home in his arms. “Makkachin, who seems to have forgotten his manners.”

“Nonsense,” the man laughed, giving Makkachin one last scratch before standing and greeting Viktor with a bow. “Welcome. It sounds as though you are far from home.”

Viktor inclined his head with a smile and accepted the key to his new room.

_Hopefully not as far as you might think._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although I believe Japanese businessmen and women are likely to greet English-speaking foreigners with a handshake rather than a bow, I've no idea about guests at an inn --edit: Some wonderful readers in the comments helped me decide! Thank you!


	4. Chapter 4

_In equal scale, weighing delight and dole..._

_Hamlet: Act I, Scene II_

_..._

As Viktor sank into the largest pool, he was grateful the garden was empty, that there was no need to share this lovely, quiet space with anyone else. His nerves had returned tenfold on his trek through the inn to the hot springs, energy pumping through his veins, the doubts blade sharp and cutting in their ferocity.  _What have I done?_

He inhaled through his nose, filling his lungs to capacity, before releasing the breath slowly, concentrating on a single container of beautiful foliage. The leaves were deep green and waxy, dew drops hanging from the veins and covering the painted clay of its pot in a satiny sheen. He inhaled again, transferring his gaze to a new specimen, this one with riotous pink blooms, so foreign and lovely it almost hurt to look at them.

He was on his fourth plant, shoulders having just lost their painful stiffness, when the door to the garden flew open and a figure burst through.

“Viktor?”

Time stood still in that funny way it has, even the sound of the springs somehow frozen, as thought and sensation rolled through Viktor like molten honey.

_He’s here he’s here he’s here._

_He remembers._

_He’s still beautiful._

Yuuri’s cheeks were red from the heat, or maybe exertion, he was breathing hard, as though he’d been running, and he— 

Viktor realized he was staring. Desperate to recover, before Yuuri got the wrong impression, thought  _he_  had somehow forgotten  _him,_  he rose from the bath with a splash.

Maybe if he hadn’t been so preoccupied with simple bodily functions like breathing, he would have appreciated more that he was 1) naked and 2) flinging rainbows as the sunlight caught the droplets where he stood.

Yuuri remained motionless at the edge of the pool.

Too frightened of the silence to wait, Viktor scrambled, thoughts tumbling over one another in his haste to salvage this, their first meeting in months— _remember how we got drunk on a balcony and you said you needed me?—_ and blurted the first thing that came to mind.

It was bravado and sheer Russian intractability and maybe, just maybe, a little dash of hope.

Yuuri didn’t run.

Viktor exhaled.

…

In the quietness of his family’s kitchen, Yuuri’s eyes were dark and unreadable. The whistle of the kettle broke the uneasy silence _._  “How do you take your tea?”

 _Fuck, I don’t care,_  Viktor thought, desperate for Yuuri to acknowledge his offer, his presence, his insane promise to help him win gold,  _him._  “Black is fine.”

“I take two sugars.” Yuuri turned away, rifling through an open drawer, for a spoon, or for nothing, Viktor couldn’t be chuffed to care, grasping onto the first sliver of personal information he’d been granted since a cold December night. It was a gift, and he cherished it.

He caught Yuuri’s eye and flashed the smile that had dazzled thousands, once upon a time. “Well, then. Perhaps I should try. Two sugars it is!”

Yuuri’s expression was too solemn, too perceptive _,_  like he  _knew_  the war Viktor was currently waging,  _knew_  the bitter tang of emotion clogging his windpipe, could hear the rapid fluttering of his heart behind his breastbone. It was nerve wracking and yet Viktor couldn’t tear his eyes away.

His breaths came no easier when Yuuri dropped two simple squares of molded sweetness into the amber liquid and passed the cup and saucer to him, hands so steady Viktor had a sudden and irrational fear of accepting it. He blinked back the quick and brutal image of flubbing this precious moment, shattering whatever thin sliver of truce in a teacup they had stumbled upon in Yuuri’s mother’s kitchen.

“Thank you,” he managed around the lump in his throat.

“You’re welcome.” Yuuri, sweetly cautious, glanced up at him through a sheaf of coal dark lashes. “Are you hungry?”

Viktor bit his lip; it wasn’t meant to be sensual, but his body mocked him by reacting anyway. He refocused his attention on his teacup, concentrated on the hunger in his stomach, which wasn’t insubstantial. He hadn’t been able to eat on the plane, too fraught with tension. “I’m famished.” His sincerity must have been noted because he was rewarded with a smile.

“I’m not much of a cook, but let me see what I can do.”

Viktor exhaled.

...

Viktor had no idea what he ate, but it was the best meal he’d ever had.

It might have been the company.

Not that Yuuri suddenly opened the floodgates of conversation, or even said much of anything at all. But he sat on a cushion next to him, and at one point he buried his face in Makkachin’s fur, and Viktor was lost.

Lost.

He was also so, so tired. The toll of the day, the week, finally catching him, the sheer relief that Yuuri hadn’t turned him away, seemed willing to accept his presence if nothing else—it was all so overwhelming that it became impossible to keep his eyes open.

Yuuri’s lap looked like an incredibly appealing place to take a nap.

Between one blink and the next, he was gone.

…

The murmur of voices scratched at the barrier of a peaceful slumber, seeping into his dreams and urging him awake. He resisted as long as possible, but one voice in particular proved too difficult to ignore.

Viktor blinked and sat up, disoriented momentarily at the foreign surroundings. He took inventory as his consciousness returned; he was still clothed in the robe Yuuri had given him in the bathhouse, and his feet were cold. When his stomach growled, obnoxiously loud, he glanced at the other occupants of the room, grateful to see he  _hadn’t_  been dreaming and Yuuri really was here, beside him. He also tried not to read too much into the fact that he had apparently stayed, for however long Viktor had slept.

But it was sweet, even the not thinking about it, and it warmed the places where the cold persisted, which he needed as he became more alert and took in the pretty girl who was also present.  

It was clear from the brief introductions that she was aware of who he was, although the shrewdness of her gaze gave him pause; she was cautiously accepting but suspicious.

He could live with that.

…

Yuuri’s mother, Hiroko, was appalled that he had let Viktor sleep on the floor of the small dining area, clucking her tongue and fussing over him, warming a different part of Viktor’s heart, one he hadn’t actually considered when he hatched this ridiculously self-indulgent life plan.

“Please, it wasn’t Yuuri’s fault. I was so tired, it was my lack of manners.” He smiled at her when she patted his shoulder sympathetically. “I promise not to be so careless next time I collapse from exhaustion,” he teased.

“None of that,” she shushed him. “Yuuri will take better care of you if there’s a next time.”

 _Please be a next time,_  Viktor thought, butterflies beating frantically in his stomach at Yuuri’s soft blush.

“Now,” she clasped her hands in front of her. “Are we hungry? What would you like?”

“Pork cutlet bowl,” he announced, smiling wider when Yuuri’s blush deepened. It was just the burst of fortitude he needed.  _Just you wait._

“Yuuri’s favorite, and our specialty!”

“So I’ve heard.” Viktor’s cheeks ached.  _Jesus, Nikiforov, get a grip._  “I can’t wait to try it.” He mentally added  _pork cutlet bowl_  under  _two sugars in his tea_ to his running list of  _Yuuri._

“Then I’ll be right back. No,” Hiroko waved Yuuri back into his seat. “I can serve, you stay here and visit with your friends.”

For  _friends_ , the table was abysmally quiet when she left. Yuuri was still and silent, and Viktor…well, he didn’t know how to start. He couldn’t help but wonder if Yuuri had shared the details of his coaching proclamation with Minako, because her shrewd gaze hadn’t ceased studying him since she sat down. It was easier when the food arrived, for one because it was absolutely delicious and for another, because Yuuri was clearly delighted that he enjoyed it.  _I don’t know what to call that in my list._

So engrossed was he in his dinner, he nearly missed Yuuri’s embarrassment when Minako matter of factly announced he had struggled with his weight. Viktor blinked, staring at Yuuri with such intensity, the other man shrank a little further into himself. He hurried to cover, to coax forth the sweetly blushing Yuuri of five minutes ago, but with a lack of inherent knowledge had to resort to a teasing reminder about skating physique. As he teased, his eyes caressed Yuuri’s face, wishing he could somehow convey just how much he hadn’t noticed, although he could see it now, with open eyes. Slightly rounder cheeks, maybe a little more to hold onto around the middle. When Yuuri wrapped his arms around his stomach, shrinking impossibly more, it stirred something in Viktor, a fierce protectiveness, and he wanted nothing else than to toss Minako from the room and lock the door, tell Yuuri how much he didn’t care, skating physique be damned.

And then… Yuuri met his gaze, a competitive gleam sparking in his eyes, his delicate jaw tightening in resolve. It was a flash—however brief—of the Yuuri from December and Viktor relaxed, the possessiveness subsiding as a clearer head prevailed. (At least momentarily).

Because, after all, Minako and his own desperate teasing were  _technically_ correct: Yuuri needed to be in top form for  _skating,_  not for  _Viktor._  These were two completely different things.

Although, eventually, Viktor was determined to have both.

 


	5. Chapter 5

_We know what we are,_

_but know not what we may be._

_Hamlet: Act IV, Scene V_

_..._

The smell of the ice in Hasetsu was the same as ice the world over, and that, alone, was comforting.

It had been a rough morning.

Viktor had spent a lonely, restless night, second-guessing himself, his decision making skills, his entire life, trying to come to terms with an unfamiliar and overwhelming apprehension that _he had screwed the fuck up._

Yuuri, he assumed, slept like a babe, because he met him in the dining room at seven, looking rested and pink cheeked and too fucking good in a pair of baggy warmups, and honestly, Viktor hated his life.

The bathroom mirror had told him that _he_ hadn’t faired quite so well on his first night under Yuuri’s family’s roof, his eyes slightly red-rimmed from another first—an unrelenting wave of homesickness.

He was never homesick.

At least he had had Makkachin, he thought as he finished tying his skates. His fingers were hasty, jerk-quick in their movements, so impatient was he to feel the ice under his blades, he would probably regret the tightness of the laces before too many laps. He needed to be steady, though, assured that he hadn’t fallen into some strange, alternate universe where nothing was familiar and no one wanted him.

 _Everyone_ wanted him. It was what he did. Who he was.

_Who was he, if no one wanted him?_

He could hear Yuuri behind him as he stepped onto the ice, his Japanese animated and friendly and far too fast for Viktor to ever hope to follow.

He hadn’t been animated last night.

He hadn’t been anything last night, maybe a little distant, which Viktor had read as _shy_ , until Yuuri had shown in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t interested in spending their first night together getting to know each other better. Or picking up where they left off in December. Or anything at all, actually, but sleeping—and only that so long as it didn’t occur anywhere near Viktor.

It had hurt, more than Viktor was prepared for, and sure, maybe a full belly and the lazy, mellowed pleasure of finally being in the same room as Yuuri again had made him bold, but _dammit._ He couldn’t get him out of his mind, the Yuuri from the banquet, who had been so funny and sweet, and whose eyes had tracked Viktor’s mouth whenever he talked. He wanted that Yuuri back, he wanted him _now,_ it’s why he was here, why he came all this way. He had missed him, as silly as that sounded, and so he had forgotten himself and come on too strong.

Yuuri’s immediate retreat had shown him that.

It had been confusing as hell, and paired with lingering jetlag and the strange room and the murmuring Japanese that filtered around him, soft and lilting and unintelligible as he tried to sleep—well. Viktor’s coaching career had been nearly done before he’d ever even started.

But then Yuuri had shown up this morning, shoulders square, determined glint in his eye, his color a shade too high—and down down down Viktor fell, through the rabbit hole again.

It had taken him all of forty minutes to realize that Yuuri was… _ripe_ for coaching. For lack of a better word. He was quick and astute, open and eager. He took to his new training regime like a duck to water, willing to let Viktor mold him into…whatever image he liked. Or so it seemed.

Which was wholly unsatisfying in a way that had Viktor completely perplexed.

_The ice._

He needed the ice.

…

His free skate had somehow ceased to be _his_ , Viktor mused, as he lapped the rink with skills he had choreographed himself, to music he had chosen, a routine he realized he would never again perform without the ghost of Yuuri skating it. Here.

He skated it anyway, the invisible Yuuri shadowing his movements, the real one watching from the sidelines, obeying his first firm rule— _no ice—_ which he had made partly out of obstinacy and too little sleep and partly because he didn’t want Yuuri to overdo until he was conditioned.

He wished he was here though, gliding across the smooth surface with him, pink-cheeked and bold, the way he’d been that night with a bottle of champagne.

_Someday._

Yuuko must have had _Stammi Vicino_ close at hand, because he was only a few hummed bars in when lilting Italian filled the rink. He caught her eye on a pass and gave her a wink. He every so slightly two-footed a landing shortly after and frowned. He wasn’t used to flat feet and dry land, to being _off_ the ice more hours than on _._ It would take some getting used to, this new life, and his chest tightened in apprehension.

He caught a glimpse of Yuuri then, his delicate jaw resting on a fisted hand, no longer chatting with Takeshi, his happy expression a balm to Viktor’s vague uneasiness. _How many times must he have watched this free skate to memorize it so flawlessly?_

It was a pulse-fluttering train of thought. _Another first._ Maybe everything would be a _first_ with Yuuri.

The butterflies surged through his veins of their own accord, forcing their way out in a bright burst of laughter.

He should buy Yuuri something, Viktor thought as he launched himself into the air ( _this landing was flawless,_ he noted with satisfaction). Something small, but personal. Was the second day ( _third, if you counted December)_ too soon for gifts?

It didn’t matter, Viktor decided, when he left the ice and Yuuri told him with a quiet matter of factness that he looked amazing.

He would buy him the whole damn world if he wanted to.

…

The Katsuki family routines were intertwined so fluidly with their guests at the inn and the locals who came to the dining room, it was hard to tell what was _work_ and what was _home_. Viktor liked the constant, happy bustle—it distracted him from his homesickness, and whatever was left to linger was easily erased by being with Yuuri. There was one tiny, insignificant detail—Yuuri’s need for privacy (he still wouldn’t let Viktor in his room)—but Viktor was more than happy to look at that as a growth opportunity for them both. They would be spending an inordinate amount of time together in the coming months, after all, no reason to spend every waking hour together. Even if he wanted to.

Presently, Yuuri had disappeared, and Viktor was tidying the little room the Katsuki’s had gifted him in their family home at the back of the inn. He had argued at first—he was more than happy to pay lodging—but Yuuri’s mother and father had waved off his concern and said he would stay with them. And that was that. He rather liked it; the vast difference between the simple room and his glossy St. Petersburg apartment felt something akin to adventure, and once he had somewhere to store all of his boxes and pick out a few pieces of furniture, maybe it would even seem like home. He was anxious for that settled feeling, still off balance by his failure to find stability—he who had never had a problem jetting around the world at the drop of a hat, no itinerary in hand. _Ah well,_ he thought. _Maybe he was getting old._ He snorted at Makkachin, who had trailed him around the little room as he did his makeshift decorating.

“Am I old, Makkachin?”

The poodle nudged his hand for a scratch, studiously avoiding the question.

“Smart puppy,” Viktor laughed. His head came up at a sound in the hallway, quiet voices and two pair of feet. _Yuuri was back._

He poked his head out of the opening in his sliding screen, but Yuuri and Mari were already almost to his room. Yuuri’s cheeks were flushed, and his t-shirt damp between his shoulder blades, the delicate shadows of the dim hallway obscuring his expression. Mari ruffled his hair and Viktor recognized her _good night_ , so slipped back into his room before they saw him.

He was almost sure he heard Minako’s name too, as they had passed, and he stared down at his makeshift bedding, lost in thought.

It would be another sleepless night.


	6. Chapter 6

_O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!_

_Hamlet: Act II, Scene II_

_..._

Viktor was waiting for Yuuri in the kitchen in the morning, fresh warmups in place, running shoes tied (jaw stubborn). Yuuri’s eyes took such an lengthy trip from his feet to his face, he actually started to sweat.

“Are you going somewhere?” Yuuri asked, one brow cocked high.

Viktor lifted his chin. “Running.”

“Running.”

“Yes,” Viktor snapped irritably. “Running. With you.”

Yuuri held his gaze for a beat. “Bored?” He bypassed Viktor and went straight for the kettle, whipping around when he found it was already warm. “Did you make _tea?_ ”

Viktor rolled his eyes, two sleepless nights and a too sassy protégé trying every last one of his nerves. “I’m not completely helpless, you know. And no,” he sniffed. “I’m not bored. I need the cardio.”

“Afraid you won’t fit into your costume next season?” The words were muffled, Yuuri’s head ensconced in the refrigerator as he searched for the cream.

Viktor ignored the jab at the precariousness of his new profession. “Any particular reason you’re picking a fight?” He crossed his arms and stared at the faded wallpaper, successfully ignoring the curve of Yuuri’s shapely backside when he bent over at the waist. “Your cream is on the counter.”

Yuuri popped up so quickly he bumped his head on the open door. He rubbed at the spot with two knuckles, narrowing his eyes somewhere in the vicinity of Viktor’s forehead. “How did you know I take cream?”

Viktor sighed inwardly. _James_ had never tried his patience in this manner at the ass crack of dawn. In fact, Viktor was fairly certain _James_ would have been overjoyed if he had awoke to find Viktor had made his tea and wanted to join him for a run. (Neither being things Viktor had ever done, nor ever thought of doing, at least not with James. Not that he was making comparisons). He held out a mug, two squares of sugar nestled at the bottom.

Yuuri stared at the cup for such a protracted pause that Viktor had plenty of time to also ignore the way the morning sun lit his eyes from within, turning them amber and warm.

“Thank you,” Yuuri said quietly, taking the cup and turning away to pour his tea. _The back of his neck is really lovely._

_Fuck._

“You’re welcome,” Viktor managed, chewing the inside of his cheek, suddenly itching to get outdoors and run off some of the godawful tension tying him up in knots. He backed toward the door, needing air.

“Where are you going?” Yuuri’s surprised voice stopped him in his tracks.

“I need to stretch.” _And breathe._

Yuuri set his cup in the sink. “I’ll go with you.”

Viktor’s stomach clenched when Yuuri brushed by him as he slipped through the door. “What about your tea?” He choked out.

“I’ll have some with you, when we get back.”

 _Okay_ , Viktor thought.

_Okay._

…

Yuuri wasn’t human.

He was a world class athlete, yes, but he had been off his game for far longer than Viktor had, and yet he had just _lapped_ him (twice! The last time with a cheeky grin!) as they ran down the beach and through the park, all while barely breaking a sweat. Viktor was intrigued, which caused him to stare a second too long, which in turn meant he missed his footing and nearly tumbled face first into the ocean. 

It was a near perfect day, though, the tangy salt of the sea on his tongue, his muscles nicely burning, Yuuri beside him, pointing out little shops and describing the people around the neighborhood, people he had grown up around and with.

Viktor didn’t know when their strides had synced, but the tandem sound of their feet on the path soothed his nerves for what felt like the first time in days.

Then it was tea, with Yuuri preparing (he had pointed at a chair with such authority that Viktor was seared right down to his bones), and then they made their way to the gardens behind the inn. Viktor had imagined they might enjoy the remains of the morning, before hitting the ice after lunch.

Yuuri continued to work out.

_Inhuman._

 “Yuuri?”

“Hmmm?”

The _thump…thump…thump_ of Yuuri’s lateral hops slowed when Viktor didn’t immediately continue. He lowered himself to the bench, his movements naturally fluid and lovely. _He was made for the ice,_ Viktor thought.

“Is something wrong?”

Viktor frowned. “What? No. Why would something be wrong?”

Yuuri brushed a cherry blossom from the wood and shrugged, quiet and waiting.

“Nothing is wrong.” _Except for this burning need to know things that are none of my business_. “When you left last night…is—” He paused, hoping Yuuri would meet his eyes, make this easier, make it unnecessary, but the silence stretched and his chest burned and he simply had to know. If for no other reason than he desperately needed to sleep tonight. “Is Minako very special to you?”

“We’ve been friends for a very long time.”

Viktor worried his lip between his teeth. “Are you in love with her?”

“What? No!”

Yuuri’s emphatic denial was genuine and the accompanying hit of euphoria made Viktor bold. He slide across the bench until their knees were touching. “Is there no one then? No one special in your life?”

“No.”

This was hesitant, and Viktor wondered immediately what he was hiding, _if_ he was hiding. Although it was nowhere near the same, he thought of James and how far their life together had been from his life, currently, with Yuuri. “I suppose I’ve always had a thing for love. Passively, perhaps. Before I came here, my boy—”

“I don’t want to know.” Yuuri interrupted with precisely as much emphasis as his denial regarding Minako.

Viktor’s mouth snapped shut, stung. A breeze lifted the hair from his brow, and he welcomed the coolness to his overheated skin. Beside him, Yuuri remained silent, contemplating the grass beneath the toes of his running shoes, or the pattern of the cherry blossoms on the concrete. He might as well have been seated across the yard, so vast was the space that rested between them.

Viktor wouldn’t know, _couldn’t know,_ his thoughts, considering Yuuri—who had brazenly sassed him over a cup of tea not four hours ago—was still a book he couldn’t read.

It was Makkachin’s exuberant playfulness that drew them out of their individual solitudes, and then out of the inn and up the hill to the castle. Viktor even forgot his impatience with Yuuri’s intractability for a while, when he offered to take him sightseeing. He was shy, almost reticent in the suggestion, prompting Viktor to move too close, stealing inside his personal space to catch the words on the air as they left his mouth.

Yuuri’s eyes widened, but he didn’t move away.

 _Triumph,_ Viktor mused. He took another chance and laid a hand on his forearm. “Why won’t you tell me about you, Yuuri? I want to know.”

“I,” Yuuri swallowed, eyes falling to Viktor’s chest. “There aren’t many things about me worth knowing.”

“I don’t believe that. I want to know everything.” He meant it, he was nearly vibrating with how much he meant it , but he could easily read skepticism in Yuuri’s answering expression.

He expected him to ask _why_ (he would have) but Yuuri surprised him, again, when he said,

“I can show you the town, my favorite places?”

“Yes.” He must have been too fervent, because Yuuri wrinkled his nose and pulled him along, hand not quite reaching Viktor’s fingers, but tightening at his wrist before letting go.

_Don’t let go._

Viktor followed.


End file.
